Hell's Hemorrhage
by Guardian of Ice
Summary: Multisource crossover. Cole Sear is finally coming to terms with himself and his ability. But when a string of seemingly supernatural murders hits too close to home he'll have to employ his talents and face his worst nightmares if he wants to survive...


A/N: Yes, I'm alive! I've been itching to get this posted - I really like where it's going. This will be a crossover fic of astronomical proportions.

I hope you can catch them all.

If you're not into the _movies_/**book**; this fic still may interest you!

The main triad of terror I'll follow: _The Frighteners_; **The Shining**; _The Sixth Sense._

There may be more, but that'll all develop as the story does.

All you'll need to know; you will be spoonfed, I'm sure.

For the prologue, all you need to remember is that the darling little boy that sees dead people in _The Sixth Sense_ goes by the name of Cole Sear.

Disclaimer: _Anything from any of the oodles of movies involved aren't mine. There. Disclaimed, bitch._

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Prologue

- Hallucinating Hack -

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The bedroom, flooded with moonlight, was painfully humid, even with the breeze sifting in through the curtains. Outside, the clouds were pregnant with warm rain that seemed to be ready to pour itself upon the earth at any time now; though for whatever reason, it was taking its sweet time in doing so. The sky lit up every so often, and now that the clouds were drawing closer to the city, thunder began to tear its way through the atmosphere, rolling in thick waves that seemed like material things; dark and heavy. A sharp crack that turned into a full, booming thunderclap startled the occupant of the bed, who sat bolt upright , tangled in his sticky sheets. He panted hard, wide eyes rolling around frantically, searching every corner of his room for the source of the sound; of which he'd only caught the tail end.

Finally, he seemed to catch his bearings, and his chest heaved in a sigh of pure, sweet relief. He flopped backwards, wiping the back of one hand across his forehead to brush away the sweat that trickled along his brow and threatened to sting his eyes.

"Ugh... Christ..."

Mumbling incoherently and closing his eyes for a moment, he rubbed at one temple with his free hand, hoping that when he turned to look at the clock it wouldn't be as late (or as early) as he thought it was. Reluctantly rolling his head so he could see the little digital clock on his nightstand, he studied the green numbers that splayed pale light across his thin, pallid face in disbelief. It was shortly after three, now.

"Oh, good... Nngh... It's only been an hour since the _last_ time I woke up..."

Chuckling humorlessly, he groaned dramatically and rolled over until his toes touched the floor, and pushed himself to his feet. He grimaced at the bitter taste in his mouth, and after careful consideration, decided to skip the toothbrush and go straight for the mouthwash. He ambled aimlessly down the hallway, yawning widely and stretching his arms over his head and nearly stumbling when his head grew light. The cool wood floor felt good on his sweaty toes, even if they did stick a little with each step. He'd only lived here for a couple of months, but it was long enough for him to know the place inch by inch; so he didn't need to nor want to turn on the light as he headed for his tiny bathroom. When he reached where he knew the doorway was, he groped blindly for the light switch, until his wrist was met by something sharp. He felt a jagged line of flesh tear itself away, caught on whatever he'd sliced it on, and the pain flooded up his arm, crisp and angry.

A stream of curses was drowned out by another cymbal crash of thunder, and he gripped his wrist tightly with one hand, wincing and gritting his teeth when dry, salty flesh met with the tender, gaping wound. It stung, and he growled, lashing out with one foot and kicking the door frame. Hie toe throbbed in protest; but the pain was minute when paired against the sharp, screaming pain whatever was sticking out of his bathroom wall had inflicted. With his elbow, he reached out and flipped up the light switch, miraculously avoiding slicing himself open again; squinting a little as white, fluorescent light flooded the room and angled itself into the hallway.

"Good fucking job, John; a lovely mess you've made this time.."

Cursing some more and feeling his stomach turn as he watched blood dribble through his calloused fingers, he rushed forward and leaned over the sink, and reluctantly released his bleeding wrist to study the damage. The inside of his tanned wrist was split deeply and widely enough to resemble a small pair of lips, and for a moment, he imagined it opening and speaking to him. He failed to find the humor in the image, though; it sickened him more than anything. He wasn't squeamish, really, but the sight and smell of blood was his bane; it stripped him of his composure and turned him into nothing more than a disgusted teenage girl. He had reason, though, to be bothered, in this case; he'd just barely missed his vein, and his arm, now that the wound wasn't held shut, was nearly pouring blood into the white porcelain sink. Trying to keep his leaking arm still, he fumbled for the handle of one of the cabinets above the sink, disgusted with himself when his fingers left bloody smears upon the mirror. 'I'll clean it up later, first I'd better bandage this before I bleed to death...'

He yanked the leftmost cabinet open and grabbed for the roll of gauze that was on the top shelf, having to stand on tiptoe thanks to his shorter-than-average build. A sudden thump from down the hall saw him jump and nearly bash his arm against the side of the sink. His outreached hand flew awry and sent several bottles of cologne and pills tumbling to the sink and floor, none of which, by some miracle, shattered. Whirling quickly, he stared down the hallway, studying the shadowed nooks that even the irritatingly bright bathroom light could not fill. His skin began to crawl, and he took an unconscious step back. Something in the back of his mind was nagging him; warning him in a voice he couldn't quite hear. It personified itself in a shiver, and he took another step backwards, his green eyes widening in surprise when another thunderclap shook the entire apartment building beneath his feet. Faintly, he could hear a neighboring family's baby begin to wail in terror, and to try to rid himself of the foreboding feeling of danger, he turned back to the sink and turned the water on, adjusting it one knob at a time with his free hand until it was a gentle, lukewarm flow.

Wincing and readying himself for the agony he knew would come; John quickly shot his arm forward and into the stream of water. Immediately, fresh pain tore through his arm and he bit his tongue to keep from crying out. _'Men don't scream. Men don't scream. Men don't scream,'_ he repeated frantically to himself as he watched the water turn pink and gurgle and vanish down the drain. After he'd had enough oh the sensation of his arm being filled with water, he slowly pulled his arm from the faucet's flow and whipped the nearest towel (which was thankfully a dark color) from the rack. Quickly but tenderly he wrapped it around his arm, applying as much pressure as he could without making himself yell. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he tilted his head back and, with all his might, forced them away.

He knew it wouldn't take long for his arm to bleed through the little towel, but suddenly he realized with mild surprise that he didn't know what had cut him. Turning on his heel, John stepped over to the doorway and leaned forward, tracing with his eyes the tiny splatter marks his arm had left behind. Jutting from the very edge of the door frame was a thick, jagged nail, the head of which was clung to by a thick, oozing chunk of his skin. He swallowed hard to keep from gagging as he watched a bead of blood fall to the floor, and with a grimace of disgust, he slowly leaned back up.

As he righted himself, his eyes locked onto those of a black, semi-solid figure, hulking and massive. Its humaneqsue build was much like that of a football player or a wrestler, and even as it came closer (not walked, but drifted) toward him, the sound of heavy, booming footsteps all but shook the walls of John's tiny apartment. His mouth fell open in a wordless 'o' of shock, and as the figure closed the distance between them, he stumbled backwards, his still moist feet losing their grip on the patterned tile and sending him toppling backwards. He landed hard on his tailbone, and, momentarily dazed, he simply stared blankly at the being, who was reaching towards him with one thick, shadowy arm; his mouth motoring but no sound escaping him. Suddenly able to move again, John began to shove himself backwards using his hands and feet, the pain in his still bleeding wrist obsolete and distant. His left hand, however, slid in its own blood and he slipped, and his arm buckled beneath his weight, seeing to it that the side of his head connected with the floor. He moaned as brilliant neon stars exploded like fireworks in front of his eyes, and he lost the strength to struggle, even as the gargantuan figure came within mere inches of where he'd fallen. In a final, desperate attempt to save himself, John balled his right hand into a fist, summoned his last bit of energy and began to pound on the floor as hard as he could; knowing that his neighbors would have to hear him. They'd yelled up at him simply for walking too hard; surely they must be able to hear him now...

Thunder, as if mocking him, crashed loudly enough to drown out his frantic banging, and John's eyes filled with tears, widening as his fear escalated into full-blown terror. Time seemed to stand still. The fluorescent light above the sink began to flicker, and slowly but surely, it dimmed. The room grew darker every second, and as John stared helplessly up into the gaping black pits he knew must be the creature's eyes, it faded into the thickening darkness. His vision began to blur as consciousness tried to swim away from him, and all he could manage was a creaking whimper as the thing's face appeared just inches from his own.

It reeked of death; a pungent, musty and coppery smell that assaulted his every pore, filled his nostrils and mouth and forced itself down his throat. He gagged and began to weep weakly, unable to cry out, but fully able to realize that tears were streaming down his cheeks. As the dark face loomed closer, John could finally form words, bubbling through his own saliva to utter them.

"P-p--please... G-god... No..."

Cold, unseen hands wrapped themselves tightly around John's head, and he could finally scream; a shrill, piercing sound that echoed within the confines of the small bathroom. With a thick, grinding crunch, his head was twisted completely around, and his scream was silenced. As a curtain of total, final darkness descended upon him, John's mind began to repeat itself as it had before.

'Men don't scream men don't scream men don't-'

As the creature took hold of his ankles and began to drag him down the hall, John's eyes rolled up into their sockets, and he knew no more. A thick trail of blood and saliva was all that remained in his wake, and as John's lifeless body disappeared into his bedroom at the end of the hall, the door slammed shut on its own.

Somewhere, several miles away, Cole Sear awakened, screaming in absolute, blinding terror.

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Review, please!


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